


more than a hand to hold

by aceofdiamonds



Series: is that such a stretch of the imagination? [12]
Category: Gossip Girl, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6451318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Weasleys popping out a kid every few months the subject has been coming up a lot recently. It’s not really to do with having a baby, they’re both quite firm on yes, a baby will be good. It’s more to do with when.</p>
            </blockquote>





	more than a hand to hold

**Author's Note:**

> a baby’s been coming for a while but i’ve been holding off and i can't hold back anymore. title is from take me home by jess glynne

 

 

For Harry, clothes were always a necessity growing up, and that’s it. When he was younger he wore Dudley’s oversized hand-me-downs; when he had his own bank account he could stretch out past grey jumpers and baggy jeans and find blue t-shirts, green jumpers, jeans that don’t need three belts to hold them up. As an adult he added more black t-shirts to his wardrobe, a few pairs of dark trousers/jeans, a couple of suits for when the occasion called for it, which it didn't often, and a couple of jackets. The basics.

Over the last few years, however, he’s learned a lot more about clothes than he ever expected to. At first he felt it was only fair — Blair had shown a grudging interest in learning the rules of Quidditch and so he asked her about why she chose this design and who that billboard was commissioned by and what’s the latest in men’s fashion. She had been suspicious of his questions, used to delegating any queries to those working beneath her, but she would curl up beside him on the couch and talk him through her sketchbooks, the plans for her upcoming shows, and the overwhelming stress that comes with New York Fashion Week, and it has become something that Harry enjoys.  

It’s easy to stretch the magic metaphor thin in the Muggle world but when he watches Blair put together these outfits and the stretch of influence they have across the city and then the country and sometimes even the world he finds it amazing that clothes can do that. It’s not trivial at all. Hey, he plays a sport for a living, he’s not exactly doing the most prestigious job. But Blair is making a difference in women’s confidence, in their day-to-day lives, by way of somewhat affordable clothing made for the modern woman in mind.

Now he’s her advertiser, spouting phrases he hears her say in her office when he drops by to visit to Hermione and Kate from the team and anyone else he thinks might be interested. Although Blair started with formal wear, Upper East Side only wear, she has expanded into a wider market, and Harry thinks Hermione and Kate and everyone else might be interested. _Yes_ , he’s shoving it at them; _yes_ , he’s biased; _yes_ , he’s proud of his wife.

He stands at the back of the crowd swarming around Blair and her catwalk after the show ends. “It’s the biggest show of the year, Harry,” she had told him earlier in the week when he had to remind her to eat and he had caught her dozing standing up more than once. “If this one doesn’t go right, the rest of the year is fucked,” and Harry might know a lot more about New York’s fashion world now but he still doesn’t know enough to dispute this and so all he had done was offer whatever support he could and made sure she hadn’t collapsed from exhaustion before tonight had even begun.

Incidentally, it had gone off without a hitch — he doesn’t need Extendable Ears to know that the press are singing Blair’s praises as they jostle for a soundbite. No, he stands back and he watches and he lets Blair have her moment.

They had fought earlier, you see, and Blair had left for the show before Harry had gotten out of the shower and though she’s smiling and waving her hands and talking about everything she loves, even from way over here Harry can see the tension sitting around her shoulders and the flicker of her eyes over to him every few minutes that betray her anger.

Harry’s angry too, of course, they’ve both got those famous tempers. But, anger aside, this is the show, this is what Blair has been working towards for weeks and weeks and weeks now and Harry wouldn’t miss it for the world.

It had been a stupid fight. Well, not stupid, but repetitive. With the Weasleys popping out a kid every few months the subject has been coming up a lot recently. It’s not really to do with having a baby, they’re both quite firm on yes, a baby will be good. It’s more to do with when. Blair’s very much a career-driven woman and Harry feels at the top of his game — neither want to commit to a pregnancy and a baby and the attention and love that they have for that baby already but manifested in a physical form when they both have so many other things going on in their lives.

It had been a fight because one of them, and Harry can’t even remember who, had brought up the fact that maybe a baby would be good now because there’s never going to be a perfect time, there’s never going to be a huge chunk of their lives that can be unequivocally set aside to raise a child, or two, or three, or seven, so why not do it now? It had then escalated, as their fights often do, into okay, Blair’s going to be the one pregnant for nine months, but then who’s going to pull back on their job for a while while the baby settles in and they pass those first few scary months.

Blair had used Teddy as an excuse, saying that Harry had had so much to do with raising him, he’s a natural at babies; she had gotten that thrown back into her face when Harry had pointed out she had helped just as much as he had. That had led to them both feeling guilty for using Teddy as some sort of pawn between them even though it hadn’t been that way at all.

Both of them had spun away with an anger that didn’t quite feel right but with no other emotion making anymore sense they had stuck to their rages — Blair had grabbed her dress and left for her office, phone already out to call Serena as the door closed behind her, and Harry had headed for the shower, following Blair’s snappy, “You smell like a sewer,” when he had Apparated in from practice earlier.

See? It had been a stupid, useless, fight that had exploded out of nothing and hadn’t been resolved yet due to both their stubbornness, and due to the fact that Blair had a huge fashion show to run -- that too.

Harry steps forward when he catches Blair making her excuses and edging out from the crowd of reporters and fans. They meet in the middle and he kisses her briefly because there are a dozen cameras pointing their way and he knows enough about appearances and the importance of looking perfect, from both sides of the Atlantic.

“You did great, Blair,” he says quietly, mouth brushing her cheek, and he chalks it up as a miracle performed by Merlin himself when Blair returns his hug and accepts his praise with a smile that isn’t as forced as the ones she’s been pulling all night. “I’m so proud of you.”

“You have a very talented wife,” she replies, jerking her head towards the crowd still floating around them. “So they say, anyway.”

“And when have the media ever lied?” Which gets him another smile and he feels less like something’s chewing at his insides. “I’m sorry about earlier, Blair. I was tired from training and anxious about tonight and I flew off the handle.”

“I’m sorry too,” she says, head bowed so her forehead rests against his shoulder. They should move somewhere more private; this is too emotional a scene for it to be perceived as celebratory. “We’ve managed everything that’s been thrown at us so far, haven’t we? A baby will be easy as pie.”

“We don’t have to do this now, Blair,” he says, slipping his arm around her shoulders and walking them backstage to Blair’s makeshift office. “We’re not even thirty yet, we both have our careers --”

“And we’ve both wanted this for so much longer than all of that,” Blair says, cutting right to the crux of it. “When I see Nate and Autumn with Ella and George and Angelina with Roxy and Hermione and Ron with Hugo and Rose and everyone else with their babies and their funny little stories -- Harry, we can balance our careers no problem, you know we can. I think we’ve been putting this off because we’re scared and I don’t think we should stop here just because the time isn’t right or because we’re both too stubborn to take some responsibility.”

“You’re right,” Harry agrees, nodding his head. Everything Blair has said is true -- they’ve both wanted a family for years, since before they met each other, and then so much more so when they got together. If anyone’s in a position to compromise and work out ways to make every other aspect of their lives bend to fit what they’ve always wanted, it’s them. “So, no more fighting about this? I hate fighting.”

“I know you do,” Blair says, leaning up to kiss him. “It makes your eyes go all wild and,” she picks up his hand, “look, you’ve been clenching your fists all night,” she says as she traces the nail marks in his palm. “I hate fighting, too, Harry. But this is it.”

“We’re having a baby?”

“Let’s see what happens, alright? I’m not booking myself in to get your sperm shot into me in a doctor’s office.”

Harry grins. “Have to try the old-fashioned way then.”

“You better get me drunk first,” Blair says. “I’ve been on my feet all day and I’m a roaring success - let’s go out and celebrate.”

“Fine,” Harry sighs, mouth bent into a put-upon frown that Blair kisses away. He chases her mouth, trying his luck, and gets a wink and a pinch at his waist for his efforts.

“Keep it in your pants, Potter,” and then she laughs when he summons her bag into his hand, pulling her out the door with the other, and leads them into the street. “Buy me a drink first and then we’ll see how the night goes.”

Harry spins her in the street, feeling somewhere on top of the world and stupid with love. He hails a cab and they tumble into it, all elbows and knees and giggly bursts of laughter before they’ve even had a sip of alcohol.

It’s fate, isn’t it? That when they stumble home hours later, giggly and fumbling and drunk enough to forget every contraceptive spell available, that they start the journey they’ve been dancing towards for a while now. It’s either fate or a drop of inhibitions, a sensible discussion about their future behind them, and the pulse of success running through them, but fate sounds more romantic, more spontaneous, and so they go with that when three weeks later Blair wakes up with her stomach rolling, her knees dropping onto the cold floor of the bathroom, and the contents of her stomach splattering into the toilet.

 

 

 


End file.
